


Cold Comfort

by jdjunkie



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjunkie/pseuds/jdjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The knocking was loud and insistent and, even without peering through the front door spyhole, she knew who would be standing there ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

The knocking was loud and insistent and, even without peering through the front door spyhole, she knew who would be standing there.

Sara tied her robe a little tighter, cinching the waist, a physical manifestation of the mental defenses she bolstered whenever he re-entered her life.

She opened the door. It was after midnight, freezing cold, and the clear moonlight highlighted the silver in his hair. And damn, he still took her breath away, but his eyes …

She waved him inside. He hesitated, just for a moment, and the time hung suspended between them.

“What?” she wanted to say, “Like I’m going to turn you away?”

He walked past her into the kitchen, then stood, as though he had no idea where he was or why he was there.

Sara followed, moved to the cabinet where she kept the Laphroiag that no one else ever drank or knew about, and poured a small measure into a glass. She handed it to him and he drank it down in one.

“You lost someone,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She knew that look in his eyes for what it was … pain, anger fear. She’d always been able to read him.

He grimaced. “I’m that predictable,” he said, flatly.

Sara shrugged. “You’re here,” she said, knowing that explained it all.

His glass refilled, she pointed him to the living room and they sat on the sofa, half-facing, close but not touching.

She waited while he swirled the liquid, drank it down and shuddered as the alcohol hit his stomach. As she took the glass from him, their knees brushed and she noted with familiar amazement the jolt it sent through her body. Their fingers grazed. He was cold and shaking. Sara closed her eyes. She’d never failed to respond to his need. All these years …

He reached for her then, chilled hand cupping her cheek and he leaned in and kissed her, cold lips moving gently, then more insistently and she opened her mouth to him just as she always opened her heart. The hand on the back of her neck was known and welcomed and it nearly broke her. The gesture was so Jack; the Jack of before and the Jack of now. Always her Jack, even when he wasn’t.

He groaned in the back of his throat and kissed her harder, delving, pushing, offering her what he could. She met him in terms of force but submitted willingly when he pushed her down into the sofa cushions and fumbled with the robe tie.

And then he was on her, frantically pulling at her nightdress. It had little love hearts all over it. Jack would have smiled and called it girlie, once upon a time. Now, it was just in the way. She undid his belt, struggled with the fly buttons and he batted her hand away absently. He reached in, drew his dick out, and it was hard and leaking and her mouth watered. Oh fuck, she wanted him. How could he still make her feel like this?

She raised her legs and spread them, laying herself open and he entered her without preamble, pushing up on straining arms. His eyes were closed as he stroked into her, each thrust a little harder, a little deeper than the last. Stifled grunts escaped tight lips, and much as she wanted to lose herself in this, she was already lost in him.

No finesse, no accommodation, just a blind need for … something … comfort, acceptance, absolution. It didn’t matter, whatever he needed …

He pulled out slightly, stabbed her with quick, short strokes that made her moan with longing and want to rub her clit. She’d sometimes been unable to come from penetration alone, and Jack had always been good with his hands and mouth. God, it had been so long …

Then he lay his full weight on her, gathered her to him and thrust faster, each thrust taking him deeper into her soul.

He came in silence, in a trembling, spasming rush, like it was the first time in a long time. And just the feel of his semen inside, the knowledge of it, pushed her over too, and she clung to the back of his jacket, breathing in the mix of leather and Jack and soap and clean sweat that made her ache somewhere inside.

He buried his face in her neck, and groaned out labored, sobbing breaths.

And still she clung to him, wondering whose death had brought him back to the comfort of her body, and silently began re-marshaling her defenses for when he left her again.


End file.
